


Dead End?

by Moreena



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood and Violence, Brief mention of attempted rape, Dark, Forests, Gen, Major Character Injury, Murder, Post-Endless Waltz, Preventers (Gundam Wing), Violence, Wilderness Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 11:19:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11312295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moreena/pseuds/Moreena
Summary: Trowa and Quatre are sent in on a simple 'infiltrate, get the data, and get out' type of mission.  Someone at Preventers was grossly misinformed, and things go FUBAR pretty quick.  Will they be able to get out together, and in one piece?





	Dead End?

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing to try and get my creativity going again. Wanted a drabble, but it got away from me. Oh well!! Don't know if I'll add to this or not.

Getting shot was painful. There was the initial pain of the bullet impacting. Then there was the horrible throb of residual pain that pulsed in time with the rabbiting beat of the heart. From there, the pain would radiate outwards, encompassing everything near-by. For the shot to the shoulder, it was all he could feel. His entire being narrowed in on the pain that started right in the fleshy part of his arm where his arm connected to his chest, right near the armpit. It scrawled out across his upper body, making everything from the fingertips of his left arm and up to the wound, and across his chest to his neck spasm with bolts of pain.

“Quat, you ok?”

The voice was soft, filled with worry as it crackled across the short wave comms. Clearly, Trowa had hear the shooting, either over the comm or as it had echoed across the expanse of forest. They were outgunned and at a disadvantage. Neither of them knew what to do. They didn’t have the ammunition to kill them off, and didn’t have the supplies to be stuck out in the woods for days on end. The plan had been to get in, get the data, then radio for pick up and sneak back into the woods and await extraction. They should have known just from scouting the perimeter, that it wouldn’t be as clean and dry as headquarters had told them. It was why they’d sent Quatre in. They’d needed the extra hands with so many different ops going on at once.

As a former Gundam pilot, he was skilled in fighting, weapons, and to a lesser extent infiltration. He wasn’t up to the level of the others, but he was still good. The blonde hair usually stood out in a way that made him easy to spot. He’d deferred to Trowa for this, accepting Trowa’s leadership. Three years after the war, and they both still looked as freshly baby-faced as they’d been when the war had first started and they all ventured out with dreams of grandeur. Of being heroes and ending a war that had been fruitless. Now, Quatre’s face was streaked with mud and grime, and his hair was plastered to his face and neck with sweat from the humid temperatures. His clothing was torn and hanging in shreds from getting caught in the woods. Now he was bleeding, and he didn’t have anything.

“I’m ok. Just bleeding,” he laughed in reply, leaning back against a tree.

He took a few breaths, needing to calm himself, to try and think rationally. He didn’t have any supplies. He’d been almost caught, but had slipped his pack and bolted before the guys could get a grip on him. There had been a chase, which had culminated in where he was now, bleeding against a tree in the middle of a jungle, with maybe five bullets left in his clip, and no way to find Trowa, or inform the brunette of his location.

“Fuck. Do you have anything? I can find you, I promise Quat. I’ll find you,” Trowa stated in between breaths, like he was running and talking, trying to keep Quatre engaged so he didn’t close his eyes and slip away into blissful oblivion.

No, Quatre was built of sturdier stuff than that. He’d built Gundams. Had fought in wars, had managed to pilot even when he’d been stabbed by Dorothy, and had bled through his bandages and flight suit, and had barely made it back to the ship in one piece. Quatre had this, he just needed to focus. Pushing himself off the tree, he crawled the short distance to the man he’d killed. The guy had gotten the jump on him, had shot him with the intention of injuring him to use him, and then bring him back to base to be interrogated. 

Quatre would rather die than allow some oaf like that to rape him. He’d taken the bullet by surprise, and had fallen to the ground, writhing in pain, biting the inside of his cheek to prevent screaming, in case there were others with him. In fact, they should have gone after him as a pair, just to prevent this kind of thing. When he’d been close enough, distracted by Quatre’s slim figure and pale skin, Quatre had struck, smashing him in the face with a rock he’d found when he’d been on the ground. The man had hit the ground in a daze, too stunned to even cry out. Quatre had launched himself on top of his would-be assailant and had bashed him over and over with both hands clutching the rock in a white knuckled grip, ignoring the pain of the rough edges digging into the soft skin of his hands. He’d beaten him until half of the man’s head looked like a smashed watermelon, with a lot more red to it. He’d been covered in blood and brain matter, his hands, his chest, his face. He’d wiped a hand across his face, smearing it, wiping the worst of it from his eyes as his chest heaved like he was trying to draw in breaths too big for his lungs to handle.

Now he was back at the body, breathing hard, grinding his teeth through the pain radiating from his arm as he worked. He ripped at the under shirt of the man, making long strips of fabric. It was awkward, and he knew he couldn’t get it tight enough to stop most of it, but he could staunch some of it. He padded the wound with fabric, then wrapped more fabric around it to hold it in place. He used his teeth to grip one end of the last strip while the fingers of his right hand worked to tie it into a knot. It would hold for now, until he could reconnect with Trowa and let the other man give him better first aid. Deft fingers searched through every pocket on the fatigues the man wore, finding an extra clip and pistol which he put on his own person. The dead man offered nothing else, and he knew he had to move, in case others started patrolling, looking for him.

Struggling to his feet, Quatre swayed when he stood, knew that he was woozy from blood loss. But, he had to move. Staying in one place for too long was dangerous, and he and Trowa were better off together. Two pairs of eyes worked better than one set. He looked down at his watch, grateful the compass in it still worked after the violent episode he had. He looked down and saw his own clothes, and had the fleeting thought that he looked like Rambo, or one of the other buff movie dudes from the 1980’s that Duo loved to watch, covered in a mixture of blood, dirt, and bugs. He wasn’t winning any awards for looks in the near future, but he was alive.

“Trowa, I’m on the move. Heading due West. Will let you know when I hunker down.”

“Copy that Quatre. I’ll find you,” he promised again.

He didn’t know how long or how far he ran. Sometimes he walked, when he felt pain forming in his side from running. Other times, the terrain proved treacherous, and the going was slow. It could have been hours, judging by the sun and his watch. He didn’t know if they were still pursuing him, but he didn’t want to rest and find out. As evening grew closer, he finally stopped as he came across a small stream of water. He knelt beside it, using his right hand to dump water on his face, wiping away at the blood and mud on his face, watching the water drip down his chin and onto the dirt below until it ran clear and he didn’t look like he’d bitten someone’s nose right off their face.

“Trowa, I’ve hit a stream. I need to stop,” he managed to say.

Taking better stock of himself, he knew he was in trouble. His shoulder dressing had bled through, which meant he might have left an easy trail for anyone to follow. It meant he needed surgery, and possibly a transfusion. He didn’t know how much blood he’d lost, but it couldn’t be good in any way. Quatre needed medical attention badly. He wanted to rest, to close his eyes and sleep until nothing hurt, and he’d escaped this nightmare.

“Ok. Just stay there. If the map I have is right, I should be there soon.”

Trowa’s voice was soothing, and Quatre nestled himself against a large tree trunk that had a sunken space in it, just big enough to hide two people if need be. Putting his head back against the bark, he let his eyes fall closed, slapping absentmindedly at his arm when he felt something sting him. Damned mosquitos were out in force, now that the sun was down.

“If we make it out of here, I call dibs on strangling Une,” Quatre croaked over the line.

He’d had water when he’d washed his face, and it had quenched his thirst, but his voice felt raw, like it was coming out of him from a great distance. It might have been that comment that spurred Trowa on, like he was being chased by the devil himself. The statement was unlike Quatre’s character, and Trowa had to wonder when Quatre had said ‘bleeding’ just how bad it was. He hurried his pace, doing his best to move with the woods so he didn’t make too much noise. His concern for his friend outweighed his rational thought, which could be disastrous in their present situation. It was full dark by the time Trowa hit the stream. He had to decide which was he wanted to go. He hoped that if he went upstream, he’d find Quatre.

Thankfully, his instincts had been right. He’d headed up, and eventually stumbled into the area where Quatre was. The bit of crashing around he’d done had woken the blonde enough that he’d drawn a gun, though the hold was shaky, and his stance wavered. When he saw it was Trowa, he pointed the gun up immediately and clicked the safety back on. He gave Trowa a weak smile, and jerked his head towards his hiding spot.

“What happened Quat? You look like shit,” he said, using a flashlight to look over the blonde, once he’d settled himself back down.

Quatre was paler than Trowa had ever seen him. He looked like he’d gone ten rounds against mobile suits with his bare hands. He was covered in filth, and his normally pristine flaxen hair was knotted and dulled.

“Almost got captured when we were trying to get away. Lost my bag. Guy managed to track me, and shot me to wound me. Wanted to rape me. I bashed his skull in with a rock. Patched myself up as best I could, then started moving. Didn’t want to risk staying in one place in case they sent others out.”

He was succinct, practically clinical in his description of what had happened. Trowa listened, the mini flashlight stuck between clenched teeth as he unwound Quatre’s bandages and poked at the edges of the wound with his fingers. Other than that, and his scratches, he looked unharmed. He worried about blood loss. But, there was nothing that he could do in the woods. He needed proper medical equipment and medical staff. When he’d fully assessed the damage, he pulled the flashlight from his mouth and sighed.

“I have to cauterize it. The bleeding is still going. I don’t think it nicked anything, but I’m still worried,” Trowa admitted, though his voice remained calm, to keep Quatre in an un-panicked state.

“Do what you need to do,” Quatre replied, head tipped back, dozing fitfully as Trowa prodded at him.

Trowa gathered what he needed to start a very small fire, and got it going. He built it up, not for warmth, but for function. When it was as big as he dared make it, he slipped his belt from his pants and folded it in half. Quatre opened his mouth without protest and bit down onto the warm leather hard. He’d try to not scream, but it was better safe than sorry. Trowa had a med kit thankfully, and he unsheathed a knife from his boot. He doused both sides of the blade with rubbing alcohol and shook it dry, then poured some onto Quatre’s shoulder, trying not to cringe at Quatre’s pained noises. Then he held the knife in the fire, letting both sides heat the metal up. It didn’t glow; that was a paltry movie trick, or the sign of an amateur. When he deemed it hot enough, he nodded at Quatre, who nodded back. White teeth flashed as Quatre adjusted his bite, then Trowa pressed the flat of the knife against the hole. It burned worse than the actual feeling of being shot. It was white hot pain, like your entire being concentrated into one painful point.

It was the muffled screaming around the leather belt that broke Trowa’s heart. He was causing a comrade pain, and he hated himself for it. It was necessary, to ensure their survival. He didn’t hold the knife there too long, out of fear of burning the skin around the area. He shone the flashlight on it again, and was confident that he’d gotten all of it. He didn’t see any bleeding while he was looking at it. He dropped the knife to the underbrush and stuck the flashlight in his mouth again, quickly dousing it with more alcohol before Quatre could spit out the belt. Then he packed gauze against it, and used more to wrap around it, tying it tightly. Quatre spat out the belt and groaned quietly. 

“That fucking hurt. I’d rather be shot than deal with that again,” he moaned out.

Trowa’s head snapped around, like he’d heard something. He stood and snuffed out the fire with dirt, kicking at it and stamping on the embers. Quatre could hear voices, far off. And, distant crashed through the underbrush. They’d probably been out hunting for the boys, and had seen the smoke. It sounded like they were headed this way. Trowa hastily shoved everything into his pack, just in case. One look at Quatre and he knew they’d be unable to move. He needed to rest, try and get his body to replenish some of its blood before he could be off running through the jungle again.

“How much ammo do you have?” Trowa asked, voice hoarse with the knowledge that they might not make it out of this alive.

“Five in one pistol, Twelve in another. An extra clip for the twelve,” Quatre said, knowing his voice sounded defeated, like he couldn’t see a ray of hope for them in this situation. “If it comes down to it, get out. I can hold them off. They want us alive. If you can get out, do it. Come back for me with Preventers in full force,” Quatre continued tiredly, hanging his head, letting out a shuddering breath.

He would make the sacrifice if it needed to happen. If one of them got out, they could come back in stronger force for the other. Trowa had a better chance for survival. He was uninjured, had all of his blood. He could run for it, if it came down to that. Hopefully it wouldn’t. Together, they lay in wait, darkness creeping in closer and closer. The voices and crashing growing louder with each passing moment. They’d be on them in moments, and the chance to run for both of them was gone. Now, it would be on Trowa to run if things turned dire.

“Make every bullet count,” Trowa ordered in a hushed voice, just as the voices of a dozen or more men, armed with semi-automatic weapons and large flashlights broke the tree line on either side of them.


End file.
